


Just A Dream

by bronzemist



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Goodnight Robicheaux has a bad time, Goodrocks is there but this is really Goodnight-centric, Groundhog Day, M/M, Major Character Death but it's not permanent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 20:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20297257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronzemist/pseuds/bronzemist
Summary: Goodnight dies. Goodnight wakes up. He might never figure out why, but maybe he can figure out how to make it stop.





	Just A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the 2019 Magnificent Seven Reverse Big Bang, inspired by [lostthehat](https://lostthehat.tumblr.com/)'s lovely art and concept!

When the cloud of fear and memories lifted, Goodnight knew what he had to do.

He raced back to Rose Creek, pushed his mare harder than he ever had before. The fight was in full swing when he arrived, but the deadly song of the devil's breath had not yet rung out.

"They've got the devil's breath! They've got a goddamn Gatling gun!"

He hadn't pulled the trigger so easily in years.

He ended up in the church steeple, with Billy, his heart, at his back. All they had time for were feral smiles and quips about his flask of all things, and then they were fighting for their lives.

The Gatling tore through the town, shredding buildings and bodies in its wake. Goodnight waited until the thunder stopped and then went right back to shooting.

He watched Faraday ride out towards the gun and did his best to cover the man's back, only to feel tearing pain as the weapon was turned on the steeple.

He staggered back from the force of it; his back hit something and then there was nothing but air beneath him. He hit the roof, then was weightless again until it all went black.

Goodnight jerked upright, gasping for air with his heart in his chest.

It took him four times to realize that they weren't horrible dreams, but the same day playing out again and again, like an automaton repeating itself in a never ending loop. Later, Goody'd be embarrassed about that, about how long it took him to realize, but in his defense, his mind was shit at the beginning.

None of them, not Sam, not Faraday, not even his Billy, none of them really understood what it was like, living with the owl on your shoulder. He'd tried to explain it to Billy, once, while he smoked an opium-laced cigarette and the sun shone bright in the sky.

"It's always there, to remind me," Goody'd said, waving off into the distance, where he knew the owl lurked. In the daytime it had to stay away, out of sight. But at night it could draw close, talons ready to strike.

"Remind you of what, Goody?"

"What I've done. All the lives I've taken, before the war and during it. Since." Goody shuddered, the fear rising despite the haze of the opium. "Only one place, for killers like me."

Billy - he couldn't understand. He'd only met Goody after, after the war, after Sam, after the Angel of Death died and left behind a husk, riddled with grief and guilt. In Billy's eyes, a man who was so repentant, who regretted his past deeds and sought to do better - a man that Billy, somehow, against all reason, loved - that man could not go to Hell.

If he'd known Goodnight Robicheaux, back in New Orleans, full of self-righteous conviction that white men were superior to all others, looking at the suffering of those around him and not even acknowledging it...

If he'd known the Angel of Death, rushing off to war with grand ideas of protecting the life his family had built, on the backs of slaves, and relishing in the reputation he quickly built...

Goody didn't understand how he'd been so arrogant, so selfish, so evil. How it had taken years of war, of seeing lives cut down around him, of the untold suffering on both sides. How it had taken the actions of a particularly noble man named Sam Chisolm, to really make it sink in to that foolish boy's mind that he'd been wrong.

Billy thought it was the lives he'd taken during the war that haunted Goody at night. They did, but they were only some of them. There were so many others, so many he'd lost count.

There was only one place for a man like him to go after this world, and that was Hell. The owl was waiting, and one day it would take him in its talons and drag him down.

During that first night, the beginning, when Goody first rode out of Rose Creek, he'd been consumed by a fog of fear. It had been building for days, crawling under his skin, hovering in the corner of his eye. He kept whirling about, hearing the silent breath of wind beneath an owl's wings and then berating himself.

Owls were silent killers. He would never hear it coming, when the strike eventually came.

It was hard for him to pinpoint the catalyst that had pushed him over and sent him fleeing death and hell. It might have been the sight of the townsfolk praying, praying to a God who had deserted Goody long ago. It might have been nothing more than his own fear of death and what would come after.

Later, after many, many days, he would wonder if it was the idea of Billy dying, and himself witnessing it.

It was on Adelaide's back, riding out of town for the fifth time, that Goody finally acknowledged to himself that this wasn't a nightmare.

He wondered if this was his own personal Hell: doomed to repeat the last days of his life, again and again and again into perpetuity.

For the first four days, he hadn't done anything differently. He'd woken up, chest full of lead and racing heart, much as he'd felt the first time. He'd told Billy he was leaving, told Sam the same, and ridden out past the praying townspeople.

As the sky began to lighten, he'd caught sight of Bogue's army in the distance, and hidden with Adelaide in a small copse of trees, terrified of being discovered.

He'd seen the cart, the tarps doing nothing to disguise the hauntingly familiar shape beneath.

As the army continued on, Goody slid from Adelaide's back, stumbling away to vomit as memories rose up and overwhelmed him. A young boy, barely eighteen, nearly cut in half from the spray of a Gatling. The thunderous roar as it tore across a battlefield, indiscriminately killing man, horse, anything in its path.

That was what Bogue had brought, to levy against the town of Rose Creek and its seven - no, six, now - defenders.

When the cloud of fear and memories lifted, Goodnight knew what he had to do.

He raced back to Rose Creek, pushed his mare harder than he ever had before. The fight was in full swing when he arrived, but the deadly song of the devil's breath had not yet rung out.

"They've got the devil's breath! They've got a goddamn Gatling gun!"

He hadn't pulled the trigger so easily in years.

He ended up in the church steeple, with Billy, his heart, at his back. All they had time for were feral smiles and quips about his flask of all things, and then they were fighting for their lives.

The Gatling tore through the town, shredding buildings and bodies in its wake. Goodnight waited until the thunder stopped and then went right back to shooting.

He watched Faraday ride out towards the gun and did his best to cover the man's back, only to feel tearing pain as the weapon was turned on the steeple.

He staggered back from the force of it; his back hit something and then there was nothing but air beneath him. He hit the roof, then was weightless again until it all went black.

Goodnight jerked awake with lead in his chest beside his racing heart, so breathless he couldn't scream.

It wasn't a nightmare. But... if this was his personal Hell... could he do things differently?

The first time, he'd not bothered shaving, so convinced they were going to die. Goody slowly rose to his feet, leaving Billy still sleeping, and walked over to the dresser. He reached out and picked up the shaving brush.

For a second, he simply stared at it, hand trembling and heart still pounding.

He had never done this before. The first five times, he had followed the script laid out by the first, had never done anything differently. Had not even considered that he could, that it was anything other than a terrible nightmare.

What else, he wondered distantly as he began to shave, could he change?

When Goody rode out that night, having repeated verbatim to Billy and Sam what he had for the past five days, he had a specific plan in mind.

The Gatling had killed him, Billy, and God only knew how many others. If he could prevent it from even reaching Rose Creek... it wouldn't save as many lives as he'd taken, but it would save some. It would save Billy.

Goody would later realize that, had his state of mind not been so poor, he would've seen that this was a suicide mission from the very beginning. A Gatling gun was no easy thing to disable, much less one guarded by an army.

It had been a fool's mission from the start, but Goody only realized that as he finished setting fire to the cart and his body jerked with the impact of several bullets. It was the first time he had died somewhere other than Rose Creek's church steeple.

Goodnight jerked awake with lead in his chest beside his racing heart.

This time, he stayed, swallowed his fear with the grim knowledge that he would repeat the same thing all over again, and did his best to keep everyone safe.

On the saloon's porch, watching the townspeople pray by candlelight, he muttered to Sam that a man like Bogue would not take any chances, wishing he could just tell him that the Gatling was coming.

He checked over his rifle with shaking hands and ignored the looks Faraday gave him.

That night, he held Billy in his arms and didn't sleep a wink, still full of fear despite knowing, knowing that he would wake up again and have to do the whole thing over.

It didn't change anything, in the end. The Gatling still came, Faraday still rode out to meet it, Billy and Goody still died in the steeple.

Goodnight jerked awake with the sensation of falling and his heart in his throat.

"Goody?" Billy mumbled.

He tried to speak, but it always took him a few moments to recover from the feeling of being shot and falling. Billy sat up and leaned over.

"Goody? Is everything alright?"

His emotions must've shown in his face, because Billy's expression turned from confusion to concern.

"Another nightmare?"

Goody shook his head, forcing himself to breathe deeply through his nose. Combined with Billy's gentle hand on his back, his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He swallowed.

Billy waited, still absently stroking his back.

He'd never told anyone before, about dying and waking up. He knew what they'd think: that he was crazy, that he was afraid, that he was imagining things. Just like the owl that hunted him, it wouldn't matter that Goody knew it was real.

But maybe, just maybe, having Billy on his side would be enough.

Goody told him everything: running away and coming back, the Gatling, even Faraday's suicide run and their own deaths. He explained how he'd tried to disable the gun, then how he'd tried to stay and protect them. How it hadn't mattered, in the end.

The sun was beginning to peek through the window by the time he was finished. Billy had listened silently while he'd talked, but Goody could already tell what he was going to say.

"Goody..."

"I know it sounds crazy," he snapped, "but it's happening, damn it!"

"Goody," Billy repeated, "it's just a dream, Goody."

Goodnight slumped forward. He'd known it would happen, but it hurt all the same.

"I wish it was."

In the church steeple, with Faraday riding out to meet his death yet again, Billy met Goody's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Goody," he said, "you were right."

This time, Goody saw the bullets hit Billy before they hit him. He screamed, dropped his rifle and lunged across the space -

He didn't fall this time. The last thing he remembered was the feeling of Billy's blood on his hands and the searing pain of the Gatling's bullets.

Goodnight jerked awake with lead in his chest beside his racing heart, and tears streaming down his face.

He lost count of how many times he'd lived the battle. It felt sometimes like this was all he'd ever lived, an endless parade of death and destruction. He wondered if it would stop once he'd lived as many days as all the lives he'd taken.

One would've thought it would become almost mundane, living the same fight again and again. Perhaps if he were a different man, it would be.

Goody pondered that, once, as he sat in the steeple and waited for the Gatling to be brought to bear. If it were one of the others instead of him.

Sam would use it as an opportunity, he figured, a way to test what would work and what wouldn't. He'd hate it, Goody thought, seeing deaths again and again that he might've prevented, but he'd force himself to use it to their benefit.

Faraday would be driving himself crazy. Goody knew now that he'd misjudged the other man somewhat, after seeing him ride out again and again to meet his death in the hopes of saving the rest of them, but that didn't make Faraday any less reckless or eager. He'd be crawling up the walls trying to figure out how to stop the cycle.

Billy... Goody had no idea what he'd do. Maybe he'd be like Sam, trying to use it to his benefit somehow. More likely he'd've gone straight for Bogue and slit his throat in the dead of night, saving them all a lot of trouble.

The Gatling began to roar, and Goody jerked himself out of his musings and into the present, the same present as always. Maybe this time would be different.

It wasn't.

There was only one time where he hadn't gone back, hadn't tried to return. There had been times he hadn't made it back to Rose Creek - when he'd tried to sabotage the Gatling, for example - but there was only one time where he hadn't even tried.

It had been an act of sheer desperation more than anything. Goodnight had seen Billy die again, had woken up in the midst of a full-blown panic attack, and had run before dawn even broke.

By the time the shame and guilt had set in, nearly six hours had passed, and he was miles away. Through the tumult of emotions, Goody wondered - would this change things? Would him running away from it all end the cycle?

When night fell, he camped under a gnarled old tree and slept very little. The haze of shame and guilt, combined with the stress and anxiety of seeing so much death, again and again and again... every time he closed his eyes, he saw another dead body. Usually Billy's, but sometimes Faraday, or even people from his past, friends he'd seen killed during the war.

Just after dawn, when Bogue's army would've been riding into Rose Creek, Goody rode into a sleepy little frontier town. He'd hardly dismounted from Adelaide's back when there was shouting from up the street.

Goody stepped out from behind Adelaide to see what was happening and took a bullet directly to the chest. He hardly had time to think _well, damn,_ before he was falling back into the black.

Goodnight jerked awake beside Billy, heart pounding and drenched in sweat. The shame and guilt immediately rose up, drowning him.

Billy stirred a short while later, roused by Goody's sobbing and choked breaths. Just like always, he gently stroked his back until he'd gotten his emotions under control, enough to breathe normally, at any rate.

"I'm a horrible person," Goody choked out eventually. "I'm a coward, the biggest coward that ever lived, I reckon."

"That's not true," said Billy, with quiet certainty.

Goody shook his head. He'd run away more times than he could count at this point, and last night he'd run away and hadn't looked back, knowing that they were all going to die. That Billy was going to die.

"I keep running," he said, unable to look Billy in the eyes when he said it. "I keep running away and leaving you all to face that monster alone."

"What are you talking about?"

Billy wouldn't believe him - he never had before. But Goody told him the whole story anyway, just the same way he always did. When he bothered trying to convince him.

"It was just a dream, Goody," said Billy, after a long pause.

"You always say that," he sighed, pulling away from his touch and rising to his feet. He hadn't shaved, the past couple of times. He picked up the razor and eyed himself in the mirror, wondering if the bags under his eyes had always been so dark.

Billy heaved a deep sigh. Goody heard him climb out of the bed and pad softly across the floor, sliding his arms around his waist.

"I know this is difficult for you," he said, pressing his chin into Goody's shoulder. "You haven't been sleeping well since we got here."

Goody set down the razor.

"I know you want to run," Billy continued, "but you wanted to help these people too."

"I do want to help," said Goody.

Billy met his gaze in the mirror.

"Are we going to?"

Or are we going to run, was the unasked question. He considered it, for a brief, shining moment. Running away with Billy, as far as they could. Leaving all of this behind.

But it wouldn't work. Another accidental shooting, or an accident, hell, maybe a bolt of lightning from God himself. And Goody was a coward, but Billy wasn't, and he wouldn't make one of him.

"Yeah, I reckon we are."

This time Faraday died before he could run out to the Gatling, a lucky shot from one of Bogue's lieutenants. Vasquez avenged him and then rode out in his place.

It didn't change anything. Goodnight was beginning to wonder if anything would.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that there was something going on between Vasquez and Faraday. With such a limited time - less than two days - he couldn't figure out if it was unspoken desire or a brief passion, but there was something.

Vasquez was the more obvious of the pair, what with his need to avenge Faraday whenever the poor bastard was shot, and he got shot more than most. Earlier in the fight, too, which Goody couldn't quite figure out.

Of course, the only people who seemed to reliably avoid injury were Sam and Red Harvest, whatever that meant.

Goody settled himself beside Vasquez in the church, waiting for dawn to break and the fight to begin. Billy was already up in the steeple, waiting for him, and the others had all taken their positions, but Goody wanted to have a little chat with the Mexican.

After all, his mama had always said he had the curiosity of a cat, and they were all going to die today anyway. Nothing to lose.

"What's going on between you and Faraday?" He asked.

Vasquez jerked around and stared at him.

"What?"

"You and the drunken Irishman," said Goody, "what's happening? Are you fucking?"

The way Vasquez reddened and bristled like a scalded cat answered his question for him.

"Too bad," said Goody, as the sun's rays began to peek into the church, "we're all dying today, you've missed your chance."

"You don't think we'll succeed?"

Goody laughed without humour. "I know we won't."

He was right, of course.

Or was he? Goody considered that as he laid in bed, Billy snoring softly beside him. His days always ended when he died, but there was the possibility that the others - Sam, Red Harvest, Vasquez, Horne - did succeed. That they killed Bogue and saved Rose Creek.

But then why would Goody keep coming back? If they succeeded, what did it matter that he died?

Maybe, he considered, it was that it was never just him, as far as he knew. He almost always watched Faraday die, sometimes Horne too, and then he and Billy normally died together, in the steeple. There had been exceptions, times he hadn't seen anyone else, but he assumed that they had to have died. Someone always did, trying to disable the Gatling.

Goody turned that thought over in his mind.

Maybe it wasn't his life he had to save. Maybe it was someone else's.

This time, Goody waited until the brief lull he knew meant that Bogue had ordered the Gatling ready. Then he sprang into action.

Ignoring Billy's confused call of his name, Goody slid down the rope leading from the steeple into the church. He hit the floor just as the first spray of rounds from the Gatling began to tear through the building.

Vasquez cried out; Goody looked up, heart in his throat, and saw him clutching his arm, blood staining his white shirt. Not a fatal shot.

There was silence as they began reloading the gun, and Goody took his opportunity. He raced out of the church, at the same time as Faraday, but while Faraday headed for the store where they'd hidden the women and children, Goody ran for a nearby corral.

He wouldn't take Adelaide on this suicide run, or any of the others' horses; he chose a bay gelding at random. He swung up onto its back and set off for the Gatling.

Another round of firing meant the Gatling's guards were distracted, and Goody took a different, more roundabout route than Faraday generally did. He still took a lucky shot from one of Bogue's lackeys, but the man immediately fell.

Goody glanced in the direction of the steeple. It was too far away for him to see Billy's face, but he could see the gleam of sunshine reflecting off the barrel of a gun.

_I'm sorry,_ he thought at Billy, suddenly full of grief even as he raced towards the wagon where the Gatling had been set up.

If this worked - if by saving everyone else's lives, Goody ended this purgatory, this hell - he'd be leaving Billy alone. Billy'd be better off without him, of course, but he wouldn't see it like that.

Goody never wanted to hurt Billy, ever, but to save his life...

The men surrounding the Gatling had finally noticed him. As they shouted, raising their weapons, Goody pulled out the stick of dynamite he'd been holding onto and struck a match. Each bullet striking him hurt, but it wasn't enough to stop him.

Light the match.

Light the fuse.

Throw.

He'd been shot so many times, he'd lost count. But he'd never been blown up before.

Goodnight jerked awake with his heart pounding and his skin drenched in sweat. He heaved in deep breaths, and then looked over at Billy, sleeping beside him. It hadn't worked. He was back, again.

Being blown up hadn't hurt as much as some of the times he'd been shot, presumably because it had happened so fast and he died so quickly. But what little he remembered made him wary of doing such a thing ever again.

But what else could he do? There had to be a way out, there had to be a solution - surely God was not so cruel, as to create this torment without also creating a solution.

Perhaps it was the work of the Devil, thought Goody, burying his head in his hands. His punishment. Satan was not merciful, and this was an exquisitely crafted torture.

But... Goody reconsidered. If he had been asked what the worst day of his life was, he would not have answered with the day he died. There were many days he could remember that would be in contention for the worst day of his life, but none of them were from Rose Creek.

There was the day he'd seen Jimmy Thomas blown apart by a cannonball. The day his best friend, Theo Verrault, had died of septicemia. The morning where they'd wandered onto a homestead and found the bodies of the family, starved to death.

The day his commanding officer had clapped him on the shoulder and told him what the Union soldiers were calling him, and congratulated him on his kill count. The first time he'd watched John Talbot, a man who'd bounced him on his knee as a boy and let him feed the horses, flog a woman until she fainted.

There were many days Goody would consider as the worst day of his life. So why, he wondered, staring at the tattered bedspread, wasn't he reliving one of them?

It still didn't answer any of his questions: why this was happening, why it was happening to him, how he could make it stop happening. But it reassured him, somewhat, that there were answers to those questions.

At the beginning, he had thought this was some kind of purgatory. Perhaps that was the right of it; perhaps, to end the cycle, he had to prove that he was truly repentant for his past. But how? He'd tried to save everyone's lives...

Goody suddenly recalled all of the townspeople who had died, before he had made his run out to the Gatling. He'd only once tried to disable the Gatling before it had arrived in Rose Creek... perhaps it was time to try again.

Despite dying in a variety of gruesome ways over the next few cycles, they were some of the better ones Goody had experienced during this... punishment, purgatory, what have you. His mind was so fixated on finding the answer that there was hardly any time at all for him to feel guilt, or shame, or panic.

First, he focused on destroying the Gatling before it reached Rose Creek. He accomplished this rather quickly, really; all it took was waiting until the army stopped to rest for a few hours, sneaking past the few guards, and then rigging the entire thing to explode. But he'd died shortly after the Gatling exploded, when one of the wakened men saw him fleeing and shot him down. He'd woken up beside Billy once more.

He tried again and again, comparing the results of blatant destruction with cautious sabotage, weighing the results against the likelihood of his survival.

Billy had begun eyeing him every time he woke up again, having detected the bizarre shift in his moods. But Goody could hardly pay him any mind, so intent was he on figuring out the answer to his problem.

"Goody, are you... alright?" Billy asked cautiously, as Goody sat on their bed. He'd been muttering to himself, wondering if the only lives he had to save were the townspeople, or if Bogue's army had some worthy folks among them. He doubted it, but some people would do anything for money. Or glory, he'd muttered self-deprecatingly.

"'M fine, dearest," Goody replied absentmindedly, scribbling some notes on the paper he was using to plan his next assault.

"What are you doing?" Billy asked, peering over his shoulder. Billy read better than most people expected him to, but he'd come to it late and didn't bother practicing much. Goody figured his notes were difficult for him to make out.

"Planning how I'm gonna get rid of Bogue's secret weapon," answered Goody.

"What secret weapon?"

"He's bringing a Gatling," said Goody. He no longer cared if people believed him or not; he was tired of lying, and too busy to bother.

"What? Does Chisolm know?" Asked Billy, recognizing the weapon's name from some of Goody's past nightmares.

"I told him this morning, though I suspect he thinks I'm crazy," said Goody, nibbling on his lip. Perhaps if he used an extra-long fuse, gave himself lots of time to get away... then he could start sniping early, act as a distraction...

"Don't you have proof?"

"No, none at all."

He didn't have to look to sense Billy's confused blink, or the way his demeanour suddenly went cautious.

"Then... how do you know...?"

"Oh, I keep living the same two days over and over again, today and tomorrow," answered Goody, keeping his eyes and most of his focus on his notes. "Bogue brings a Gatling, you and I die to it, and then Faraday blows it up and himself in the process. Then I wake up beside you, right as rain."

He looked up to find Billy staring at him. Billy's expressions were difficult to interpret at the best of times, even for Goody; he'd spent too many years training himself not to reveal his emotions in his face.

"Goody..."

"Don't tell me it's just a dream," he sighed heavily, "you say it every time, and I'm tired of hearing it, to tell the truth."

Slowly, Billy moved across the room and sat down on the bed, right on the edge of Goody's reach.

"What else could it be, if not dreams?"

Goody had expected Billy to walk out on him, or try and convince him to smoke some opium and sleep, perhaps. He hadn't expected... this, whatever this was.

"Hell," he replied with a shrug, "or purgatory, maybe. Punishment for all of my sins."

Billy didn't say anything for a long while. Goody had almost returned his attention to his notes, when his partner suddenly spoke.

"If it is a punishment, why do you make plans?" He asked. "Why do you try to change things?"

Goody shrugged again, carefully ignoring the pit of despair that threatened, every time he considered the possibility that this was truly endless. That no matter what he did, what he tried, how many lives he saved, it would never be enough. It would never end.

"Have to try something, otherwise I'd lose what's left of my sanity," he said. "I've tried so many different things, you know."

"Tell me," ordered Billy.

Goody did, though he had no idea what good it might do. Still, the novelty of having someone believe him, even halfheartedly, was enough to buoy him through what felt like hours of recounting his own gruesome deaths: being shot, blown up, or knifed, falling from the steeple or, on one particularly unfortunate occasion, trampled by a horse...

Billy's expression didn't change much throughout his explanation, but Goody didn't take that personally. The way he took his hand after the first few deaths said plenty.

"At the moment, I'm trying to save as many lives as possible," Goody finished. "Maybe that's the answer, sparing as many of these folks' lives as possible."

"What about your life, Goody?" Billy asked.

He blinked. It had been... a long time since he'd bothered to try and save his own life. Things always seemed to conspire to kill him, the few times he'd tried to flee and save his own skin.

"I told you, I always die, that's when the whole damn thing starts over," he said slowly.

"Exactly," said Billy. "So if we keep you alive..."

Goody shook his head. "I've tried, believe me, though I'm not proud of it. Something always happens: getting caught in a shootout, or something like that."

Billy's expression grew thoughtful. His thumb began tracing light patterns over the back of Goody's hand.

Goody was content with the silence. It felt so good, he reflected, to be believed. And Billy did believe him, which was more than he'd ever hoped for. Goody could meet his death and next cycle with more peace, he thought, having felt this.

"So we all live," said Billy suddenly. "You, me, Faraday, all of us, and as many townspeople as we can save."

"That's a tall order, cher," Goody startled, "I've tried my damndest, but saving me, or Faraday for that matter..."

"We need to go to Chisolm." Though to most people Billy's expression would read as impassive, Goody could see his determination in the set of his jaw and the thinness of his eyes. "We convince him to help us. We destroy the Gatling like you planned."

Goody felt the stir of hope in his heart, and tried his best to quash it. "I've tried, cher, I've tried so many times..."

"But you've never had help before!" Billy's voice rose, and Goody silenced himself. There was guilt, there, and he couldn't let that stand.

"It's an impossible story, Billy," he said, "I don't blame you for not believing me. I never did."

Billy scowled. "I still should have."

"You do now, and that's what's important."

The hard line of Billy's brow gave Goody the feeling they'd be having this argument again, whether today was the last day or not.

"Regardless," said Billy, shaking his head, "this time I will help you, and so will Chisolm. Perhaps that is what you needed."

"Maybe," said Goody, losing the battle against the rising hope within him. Maybe Billy was right. Maybe having the support of the others would be enough to win this battle, to end this endless cycle.

Billy gathered up all of Goody's notes. "Let's go find Chisolm."

"Alright, dearest." Before he could stand up, Goody reached out and pulled him into a kiss. "Thank you, Billy. For believing me."

His jaw twitched. "You're welcome, Goody."

They left their room and headed downstairs, where Chisolm was sitting alone at one of the tables, poring over the crude map of the town they'd put together.

"Sam?" Said Goody, at Billy's nudge. "There's something I need to tell you."

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about having an Everybody Lives happy ending, but I think I like it better this way. 
> 
> <strike>Also I dug myself a hole by having Goody try so many ways to save everyone, idk how I could realistically write an Everybody Lives scenario</strike>


End file.
